


Four Oranges

by Nightdog_Barks



Category: House M.D.
Genre: American Football, Cooking, Dog(s), Flashback, Friendship, Gen, Holidays, Television Watching, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-27
Updated: 2008-11-27
Packaged: 2017-10-18 05:36:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/185585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightdog_Barks/pseuds/Nightdog_Barks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thanksgiving is a family time.  For ... what family you want to spend it with.  1,003 words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Oranges

**Author's Note:**

> Both TV shows mentioned in the story are real.

_**Four Oranges**_  
 **TITLE:** Four Oranges  
 **AUTHOR:** [](http://nightdog-writes.livejournal.com/profile)[**nightdog_writes**](http://nightdog-writes.livejournal.com/)  
 **CHARACTERS:** House, Wilson  
 **RATING:** PG-13  
 **WARNINGS:** No.  
 **SPOILERS:** Only in a very general sense for the S4 season finale.  
 **SUMMARY:** Thanksgiving is a family time. For ... what family you want to spend it with. 1,003 words.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **AUTHOR NOTES:** Both TV shows mentioned in the story are real.  
 **BETA:** My intrepid First Readers, with especial thanks to [](http://deelaundry.livejournal.com/profile)[**deelaundry**](http://deelaundry.livejournal.com/) and [](http://phinnia.livejournal.com/profile)[**phinnia**](http://phinnia.livejournal.com/).

  
 **Four Oranges**

  
Wilson opens the door before House is able to get into a really decent rhythm with his cane-rapping, which, while it's mildly disappointing, is probably a good thing seeing as how the two six-packs of beer in his backpack are starting to get heavy. His right shoulder is already protesting. Wilson looks him up and down, and for one long moment House is afraid that he's simply going to shake his head and swing the door shut in House's face. Wilson smiles then, that wryly amused half-smile he reserves for House alone, and the moment passes.

"Hey," House says.

"Hey," Wilson says. "Happy Thanksgiving."

He stands aside as House muscles his way into the apartment.

* * *

It's warm in here, the air scented with roasting turkey and other _holiday_ smells -- sugarplums, maybe, no, wrong nationally-observed sacred occasion. Still, House wouldn't be surprised if Wilson's got some kind of New Agey candle burning somewhere in the apartment.

"Hey," Wilson says again, and House realizes he's waiting for House to put down his pack and take off his scarf and jacket instead of continuing to stare into space as he's apparently been doing for the last few minutes.

House grunts as he shrugs out of the backpack; the bottles inside make a companionable tinkling sound as they knock against each other.

 _"Judging them is more than just putting your hands on them,"_ a soft male voice intones in the background, and House looks up to see where the porn's coming from. On Wilson's flat-screen TV, a rangy dog speckled in vivid brown-and-white is submitting to having its teeth inspected.

Wilson's watching a dog show.

As House eases himself down on the sofa, a black spaniel that looks like it's wearing bed ruffles around its legs prances around the ring. House changes the channel and settles back as the announcer informs the audience that the Detroit kicker has just shanked a ten-yard punt. Three minutes later Tennessee scores.

Now _this_ is Thanksgiving.

* * *

"I'm hungry," House demands.

"Turkey won't be done for another half-hour," Wilson responds calmly. He makes no move to get up. "And before you say anything about timing, you weren't supposed to be here until ... now." He looks curiously at House. "Why _are_ you here? You're never early for anything."

"You're feeding me," House says. "Speaking of which ... "

Wilson rolls his eyes, and that's always a good sign. Maybe there'll be some appetizers forthcoming, those little froufrou wedges of melty cheese and stone-ground peppered crackers from one of those New York emporiums Wilson favors, where everything costs as much as the GDP of some small European country, or maybe spring rolls stuffed with a minced-up mix of unidentifiable seafood. House is convinced Wilson must have been a caterer in a previous life, probably murdered by the outraged husband of the society _doyenne_ with whom Wilson had been having an affair.

"Have some more beer," Wilson says. He leans forward, sets his own beer on a table coaster and stretches a little, tugging the sleeves of his sweatshirt further up his forearms. He's wearing a grey sweatshirt, but it's not the one from McGill. This one has PENN emblazoned in dark blue across the front.

"But _moooommmm_ ," House whines. "I did all my homework, and you _promised!_ "

"Fine," Wilson says. "You can have what I was saving for dessert." Before he gets up, though, he switches the channel.

A basset hound galumphs across the television screen. _"Noodles,"_ the announcer murmurs. "On his way to Best In Show."

House groans.

* * *

At first House thinks it's a _mikan_ that Wilson's handed him, but that can't be right. The tiny citrus fruit don't travel well so it's prohibitively expensive to ship them from Japan to the States. Still, he's transported back, thirty years and change, to another room, another boy, holding out a golden globe of concentrated sunlight.

 _"Mikan desu,"_ the boy says.

"Clementine," Wilson says. House looks up. Wilson's simply set the small wooden crate down on the coffee table, allowing three of the ping-pong ball-sized fruit to spill out in a rush of orange. They roll merrily across the tabletop, and House stops them from taking a dive off the edge. "On sale at Wegman's."

"'My Darling,'" House says automatically.

"Just so long as you aren't lost and gone forever," Wilson mutters.

"I'm a doctor, not a miner, Jim," House says. He picks up the three escapist mandarins; they nestle easily in one hand, and their pores release a heady, tangy fragrance. On the TV, the announcer is nattering away about something called a _Bouvier des Flandres_. House tunes him out; Wilson is peeling his clementine in one long spiral and the scent of summer tickles House's nostrils. He experiments, tossing the first orange sphere in the air and catching it in the same hand. He flips one of the three mandarins back and forth between his hands, silently counting off.

 _Ichi, ni, san, shi --_

Except the Japanese don't say _shi_ ; it's the number four but it's also a homophone for _death_. Bad luck and worse karma, so they say _yon_ instead.

He steals a glance at Wilson; it looks like Noodles' going down to defeat, and Wilson's attention is fixed on some tall, lanky dog with his head up and his nose in the air.

"It's the pointer," the announcer whispers. Wilson nods in agreement, and it's House's turn to roll his eyes.

Hand to hand, the clementines rise and fall in a smooth, easy loop as House juggles. There's a soft _bing!_ from the kitchen. Wilson wipes his palms on his jeans and stands up.

"It's time," he says, and smiles at House. "Come on. I'll even let you carve."

House juggles a few more passes, then counts off again as he catches the falling oranges.

 _Ichi, ni, san, yon._

He sets the fruit gently on the table and levers himself to his feet. Time for dinner. Time for Thanksgiving.

Or at least as close as he can get.

  
~ fin

One version of Wilson's sweatshirt is [here](http://www.ivysport.com/product-product_id/85/category_id/148).  
[This](http://www.nationaldogshow.com/) is the dog show Wilson was watching. The pointer really did win Best of Show.  
[Wegman's](http://www.wegmans.com/webapp/wcs/stores/servlet/HomepageView?URL=RedirectView&storeId=10052&preferredStore=93&catalogId=10002&langId=-1&ddkey=https:OrderItemAdd) is a real grocery store in Princeton.  
The lyrics to the American folk song _My Darling Clementine_ are [here](http://www.asklyrics.com/display/Traditional/My_Darling_Clementine_Lyrics/89968.htm).  
[This](http://www.dogbreedinfo.com/bouvierdesflandres.htm) is a Bouvier des Flandres.  
An article on counting in Japanese and the _shi_ conundrum is [here](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Japanese_numerals).  
The boy in House's memory is saying "This is a _mikan_."


End file.
